BAM!
Icariel hit the ground hard, his long hair dragging through the dirt like strands of shadow clawing for purchase. His elven clothes, torn and ragged, clung to his frame in shreds—like worn-out promises. Yet his body bore not a single wound.
"Tch, tch, tch…" he muttered, rubbing his sore shoulder with a hiss.
Aelar stood before him like an ancient mountain, a branch of hardened wood in hand. With a grunt, he let the training staff drop, its weight thudding into the earth.
Then, extending a weathered hand, he offered a smile that was both proud and heavy.
"Congratulations on mastering Vital Surge, my student."
Icariel accepted the hand and stood, dusted in soil, smiling back with quiet gratitude.
"Thanks, Teacher. It's all because of you. Really… thank you."
Aelar nodded, the corner of his lips twitching with pride.
"To think you'd master Vital Surge in just one month…"
His eyes drifted to the battered training field—scarred grass, split stones, cracked bark—each wound a testament to effort. A wind passed like a whisper across his mind, and with it, his thoughts began to wander.
"One month... already."
Icariel's internal monologue flickered like embers in ash.
"Honestly, I expected to master Vital Surge faster. I almost had it in the beginning—but controlling the density of mana across my body without over-saturating… it was harder than I thought."
He flexed his fingers.
"Still, I've gained an incredible card up my sleeve. A trick to survive. A layer of armor I forged myself."
He clenched his fist—tight. It wasn't pride, not exactly. It was relief. A small barrier between him and death.
"During this month, I also learned some hand-to-hand combat. I'm no expert, but at least now I know where to strike. Where to run. Even if I pray I never need to."
His stomach grumbled softly, almost apologetically.
"I've snuck out to hunt a few times. Meat's not really allowed here, but I've adapted. Even dishes like Jeprak aren't so bad when you're hungry enough. I've managed."
Faces flickered in his memory—elf villagers, gentle smiles, soft hands offering food and cloth with no expectation.
"I spend most of my free time with Elif. The elves… they're kind. Too kind. They feel like sunlight I don't deserve."
But light never lasts without a shadow.
"The annoying princess shows up sometimes. Sometimes she chats with Teacher. Sometimes she just watches me train—probably thinks I don't notice."
A small scoff.
"We haven't spoken since that day."
His gaze sharpened slightly.
"My White Sense has grown. I can feel the air moving now—not just in wind, but in tension."
He inhaled deeply.
"My detection range is now 22 meters—44 if I focus everything into it. My body's mana capacity has deepened too. I've come far."
He thought of the voice again. That ever-watching presence.
"And tomorrow… I begin my Superhuman Awakening."
The moment the thought crystallized, a voice broke through his reverie.
"Elena: The food is ready! Come eat!" she called out, walking toward them.
"Yes, gladly!" Icariel perked up, his stomach growling like a beast just awakened.
"It's noon, after all," Aelar added behind him, his voice calm as drifting leaves. "Go ahead. I'll be right there."
"Okay, but don't be late," Elena replied, walking alongside Icariel.
She glanced sideways at his battered clothes. "Your clothes are a mess."
"I know, right? I'll change after we eat," he said, scratching his head.
As the two disappeared down the forest path, Aelar remained behind. His gaze lingered on their retreating silhouettes, then turned inward.
"One month already…"
The words were low, almost carried off by the breeze.
"I love sharp students… and he picked up everything so quickly. A human, not even an elf, mastering Vital Surge and healing magic?" He shook his head. "I'm proud of him. Truly."
His smile faded, just a fraction.
"But that survival-obsessed mentality..."
A gust of wind fluttered the branches overhead, rustling like uneasy thoughts.
"When I asked him why he trains so hard, his answer was… simple."
"I want to survive and protect myself."
No glory. No power. Just the raw ache of self-preservation.
Aelar's voice dipped into memory.
"Healing magic? Most learn it to protect others. But him? He said he needed it. Needed it—to avoid death. His honesty was sharp. Painful."
He looked down at his hands, calloused and firm.
"He told me about the village. How a superhuman came. A monster in flesh. She controlled beasts. And she spared him… only so he could watch."
He exhaled.
"That boy… something inside him is broken. You can see it in the way he flinches—even when he tries not to. Especially when he tries not to."
Still, his thoughts grew somber.
"But it's that same fear that makes him sharp. Focused. Obsessed."
A memory bloomed in his mind—of one cold afternoon.
They sat in silence, breath visible in the chill air.
Aelar leaned back, watching the boy across from him.
"Why do you fear death so much, Icariel?" he had asked. "Why are you so obsessed with survival? No one is always coming for your throat."
Icariel didn't answer right away. Then he looked up.
Eyes black. Empty. Not hollow—bottomless.
"First," he said quietly, "I don't believe in the afterlife."
Aelar didn't flinch.
"Second… is there a reason not to fear it? The one who doesn't fear death is a fool."
His voice cracked slightly, like dry earth underfoot.
"There was a man in my village. Threw away his life to avenge his son. No hesitation. No fear. I don't understand that. I never will."
Aelar remained silent, lips pressed.
Then he said gently, "The ones who stare into the dark and still move forward… they're not fearless. They're just tired of being caged by it."
Icariel's lips curled—not in a smile, but a subtle mockery.
"No. That's something people tell themselves to sound brave in their own stories."
He stood slowly, brushing dirt from his sleeves like memories he didn't want.
"Tired of the cage? Then they've already given up. They're not moving forward—they're falling, and calling it flying."
He tilted his head slightly.
"You call it courage. I call it surrender in disguise."
Aelar's voice dropped low.
"Think what you want, Icariel. You're young. But there will come a time…"
A pause.
"…when you'd give everything—your blood, your breath, your soul—just to go back. Just for one moment. One laugh. One voice you'll never hear again."
His gaze hardened.
"When you lose something that mattered more than you ever admitted… that's when life stops having meaning. That's when surviving hurts more than dying ever could."
Icariel's expression cracked—just for a breath. Then buried. Fast and sharp.
"For me," he said coldly, "it never will."
"A strange boy," Aelar whispered now. "Even at his age, most don't think about death, let alone fear it. But he…"
He placed a hand against the bark of a tree, feeling the pulse of age in the roots beneath.
"He's shaped by it. Driven by it."
And yet… that fear? It wasn't a flaw.
It was armor.
"Forged in terror. Worn in silence."
"If he had just a little more daring… he might become one of the greatest mages of his generation."
His fingers traced the tree's bark.
"But maybe… maybe that fear isn't weakness.
It's the armor he chose.
Sometimes, the ones who fear death the most… are the ones who survive the impossible.
Maybe it's why he'll survive what others won't."
The wind blew again—soft through the leaves, murmuring like an ancient secret.
Aelar exhaled, low and tired.
"I have so much work to do," he muttered, "since that is coming soon."
[End of Chapter 39]